


Empty Heart

by ZionAngel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZionAngel/pseuds/ZionAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin never intentionally enchanted the cup, but like the woman who chipped it, it has a fiery spirit all its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Heart

Rumpelstiltskin never intentionally enchanted the cup.

The energy and magic coalesced around it over time, and were drawn into it, until the two were bound together.  It happened slowly, over time, as magic of this nature tends to do.  It may have started when she first dropped the cup, worried over it so, fretted over it with such care as though it were a sick child.  It may have happened because he drank from the cup daily, always thinking of her without even realizing it.  When he hesitated, just for a moment, and didn’t shatter the already broken cup against the wall with all the rest, the magic no doubt strengthened.  When she spoke of it, gave her devastating prophecy, she imbued it with power of her own.  And when he lost her, shed tears for the first time in centuries, mourned her and gave his one keepsake a place of honor, her lingering spirit and energy in the castle must have found solace and refuge of their own in the vessel, and stayed there.

Now, when he holds the cup in his hand, turns it over and over, runs his fingers over the smooth glazed surface of it, he feels the magic in it.  He sees Belle, as vividly as if she were standing before him, can smell her, hear her lilting voice.  When he holds it, he can feel the little bit of the soul it retains, can feel Belle herself, and the love she held for him (if only once, briefly).  He can think back, of course, remember her on his own, and think of times they shared together, brief moments of comfort and friendship.  He can feel his love for her still, even in his own irreparable heart.  But when he holds the cup, he feels the traces of her spirit, her energy, that lives within it, and it feels as though she is there with him again, if only just for a moment.

When he realizes it, feels the magic within it and the tiny piece of the soul of a woman who once loved him in it, he treasures it.  He protects the pedestal where it rests with magic and spells, keeps it safe.  He keeps his last remnant of _her_ safe, never to be broken or damaged or stolen or touched by any but him.

When he misses her, when the vestige of his shriveled heart aches at her memory and loss, he holds her cup.  And as he closes his eyes, runs his fingers over it, he sees her, and remembers her, loves her and feels her love.  And sometimes, when he has gone days without sleep and is not quite in his right mind, he forgets that she is gone, that the woman in front of him, beckoning him to go to bed, isn’t really there.

He leaves the castle for days at a time when he seeks out desperate souls, strikes his deals, collects his payments.  Before he vanishes from the castle walls, he takes the cup in hand, holds it, remembers, loves, mourns.  And even though he has spells to protect it, even though there is no means or reason for anyone to come in and steal or destroy it, he always places the cup back in the glass cupboard before he goes.  He feels safer with it there, more secure somehow.  When he returns from his dealings, the first thing he does, before anything else, is return it to its pedestal.  He makes sure to keep I in a place of honor.  A place he should have kept her.

His heart is full of guilt and remorse each and every day.  It is not long before he forgets what it is like to live life without it.  But when he feels particularly consumed by guilt, when no deals or potions or spells can ease his mind and make him forget for a while, he takes the cup and holds it close to his chest.  He sits back against the pedestal, sometimes for hours on end, and wallows in his guilt, lets himself drown in it.  It is a worthless penance, but the only one he can make.  He owes her that, at the very least.  He wonders if perhaps, wherever she is, she knows, if she can feel how deeply sorry and full of remorse he is.  And he wonders – hopes, maybe, that should he ever meet her again, in another world, another life, he can fall to his hands and knees before her, beg her forgiveness, and she may actually grant it.

He dreams of her often.  Sometimes the dreams are pleasant and sweet, but far more often, they are full of suffering and pain and torture and her cries of agony and he wakes in a cold sweat with his heart being ripped from his chest.  In the dead of night he races to the cup, holds it, touches it, cradles it against his chest.  The cup is broken and can never be made whole again, like Belle.  Imperfect, but even more beautiful and special and precious because of it, like Belle.  In the darkness, still half asleep, he holds it and soothes it, as if he can hold and soothe his Belle and heal all of the pain she felt.

When he finds himself in a dungeon of his own, tortured not by clerics, but by his own thoughts and memories and darkness, he suffers without it.  Slowly, day by day, he goes mad without it.  He can’t touch it, can’t feel her presence and warmth and spirit, can’t see her face, can’t be comforted by her memory.  He dreams of her every night, being tortured, or walking away, or trying to kiss him and being pushed away.  He cannot feel a tiny bit of the love kept within it, the love that he came to feel for the first time in centuries.  He becomes angry, vicious, vengeful.  He climbs the walls and goes days without sleep, and descends further and further into a madness he fears he will never be able to escape.

When the curse swallows their world whole, he wakes in a soft bed with early morning light streaming through the windows.  He throws the blankets off, limps through the house frantically despite the searing pain in his leg.  He tears through boxes and chests and wardrobes and shelves of unfamiliar things in an unfamiliar house, stops not a moment for the human face in dusty old mirrors, pushes on when his knee buckles beneath him, all the while searching and praying, praying, praying.  And finally, with the house ransacked from one end to the other, he finds the glass-faced cabinet, tucked away in a safe corner – a glass coffin for the memory of a beautiful, lost woman – and resting inside, waiting for him, is his precious cup.  And he takes it cradles it into his chest as he sinks down against the wall, and feels the magic, the memory running through it, even here in this land without magic.  He stays there for hours, holding it, clinging to it, his only lifeline.  No words exist to describe how grateful he is that he has this small memory, if nothing else, this small token to sustain him until the curse breaks and he can finally fade away to dust.

When, decades later, he returns home to find the house ransacked once again, the cup nowhere to be found this time, the reality that he may never have it again quickly sinks into his soul like a plague.  Rage slowly transforms into panic and desperation, and he feels its absence as readily as if it was _her_ being ripped away from him, to be destroyed and never seen again.  In his panicked mind, he almost believes that if he can find the cup, rescue it, he can save her as well.

When that evil, vicious, soulless witch dangles it in front of him, he takes it back desperately – so carefully – and retreats, shielding it from her.  He holds it gently, turning it over and over in his hands, looking for new damage.  When he finds none, when his breathing slows and his heart calms, he breathes a sigh of relief that he has not lost her all over again.  Once Regina is gone, he runs his fingers over the smooth surface and lets her memory sooth him.  With the cup’s magic, it feels as though he is gently touching her face, smoothing her hair, and holding her against him, and he feels her rest her head against his shoulder and wrap her arms around him in return.

When finally _she_ is there, real and alive and true, emerged out of a very different kind of dungeon, she gives him knowing looks with hopeful eyes as they pass in the street or sit at opposite ends of the diner.  And in spite of his desperation, his relief, the welling up of hope in his heart, he is ever the coward.  When she finally comes to him, he is too weak and afraid to admit how deeply he cares for her, to say he’s sorry, to admit that he royally fucked everything up, to tell her that he thought she was dead all this time, to open up his guilty and broken heart to her.  Like the coward he is, he pushes her away.

And when, one day, he comes home and finds her there, standing before the open cabinet, holding his cup – _her_ cup – in her hands, tight against her chest, with her eyes closed in concentration, he panics.  When he pulls it out of her fingers, she startles, and there are tears in her eyes.  He puts the cup back in its place, shoves the cabinet door closed, and fails miserably to sound stern as he tells her to leave.  But his little Belle – brave, strong, kind Belle – only moves in closer, takes his face in her hands, and smiles.  She whispers _Not this time_ , and the words echo in his ears.  Her smile is bright and warm like salvation, and when she kisses him, he wonders vaguely how he ever managed to survive with only a chipped cup.


End file.
